Humbug
by iamvican
Summary: "If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding." Yeah, Dickens kind of had a point.
1. The Wreath

**Hi. So, this is pretty simple. We (iambeagle & vican) wanted to write a story based on A Christmas Carol. So we are. And we hope you like it. It will be around 10 chapters. We'll hopefully finish it before the new year. Thanks for reading!**

**Also, thanks to Erica and Kim for reading over this, making suggestions, and just being lovely.**

* * *

**Chapter One: The Wreath**

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Cull—" Carmen, from Human Resources, begins to say as I make my way through the lobby of Cullen & Platt.

Keeping my stride, I manage to shoot her a look—one that causes her mouth to immediately snap shut.

Once I reach the elevator, I tap my foot impatiently. The doors open and I step in and turn around, suppressing a sigh when I see Carmen has walked in behind me.

"I'm sorry about wishing you a Merry Christmas," she apologizes quietly, once the doors close. I turn my head in her direction, and force a smile. "I forgot—"

"Tell me, Carmen. How long have you worked in Human Resources?" I ask, pretending to look interested.

She looks taken aback by my answer, tucking a piece of graying hair behind her ear. "I've been with Cullen & Platt for five years now, but I've worked in human resources for almost twenty years."

She gives me a small smile when I whistle. "What was that memo you and your fellow colleagues sent out a few years ago..." I tap my temple in mock concentration. "Oh! That we were to refrain from saying Merry Christmas, and were to wish people Happy Holidays. Isn't that right?"

"I think—"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the reason behind saying one over the other is that _Happy Holidays _is politically correct, and covers not only Christmas, but Hanukkah and Kwanzaa as well."

She looks confused, but nods anyway. "You're correct."

"I suppose I'm just confused as to why you felt the need to wish me a Merry Christmas, when we were deliberately instructed not to use that term. I assume you take your job here seriously, do you not?"

Carmen opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her face goes red and her eyes are wide, and I've ruined her day. For a moment, I'm convinced she's going to cry. I don't _want_ her to cry. That wasn't my intention. And I don't actually care if people around the office wish each other a Merry Christmas. All I want is for her, and others, to not wish _me_ a Merry _fucking _Christmas.

I clear my throat and the elevator stops on her floor. She nods before she exits, and I pinch the bridge of my nose once I'm alone.

I just have to last seven days. There are only seven days until Christmas and hopefully I'll come out of the holiday season with my sanity intact.

Stepping out of the elevator, I take out my phone and check my emails. I repress a sigh at the high number of unread messages I have.

I stop by my assistant's desk and grab the steaming cup of coffee she has waiting for me. Walking away, I let my attention go back to the device in my hand.

I hear someone down the hall tell me good morning, but I don't bother looking up. I like to keep fraternization to a minimum.

With my head down, I reach for the knob on my door as I always do. I don't usually have a reason to pause before entering my office, but today is different. Today, a fucking branch pokes me in the eye.

I recoil, coming face-to-face with the monstrosity hanging on my door. I stare blankly at the wreath, just a bush that's fastened into a ring and decorated with holly leaves and jingle bells.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I mumble under my breath, rubbing my eye.

Casting a discreet glance around, I check to see if someone is about to jump out and tell me this is a joke, which would be a terrible mistake on their part because: one, I never joke, and two, I don't celebrate Christmas, let alone decorate for the holiday with items that are liable to poke an eye out.

I fired my assistant, Tanya, two years ago because she insisted I get a small tree in my office. I've never understood the point of having a tree inside. They're dead immediately after you chop them down, so you're basically bringing a corpse into your home. Doesn't exactly ring of holiday-spirit to me.

I notice other Christmas decorations around the office—there's a tree next to the elevator and garland hanging from the ceiling—but my door is the only one decked out with a giant, tacky wreath.

Shaking my head, I slip my phone into my pocket and turn the knob, trying to ignore the unnecessary foliage that's covering my nameplate. But the door won't open. I look up and see that someone's put a hanger over the top of the door, holding the wreath in place. Frowning, I give it another push, but it won't budge. The hanger's too thick, causing my door to stick.

I hear a few people whispering at the end of the hall, and my neck heats up. This is ridiculous. I'm the CFO—I should be able to get into my office without a fight.

Clenching my jaw, I wrap my hand around the knob once again, giving the door one last push with my shoulder. It finally gives way, but as I bust into my office, the coffee in my cup spills over and drenches the cuffs of my coat and shirt.

I curse, stalking over to my desk and placing the cup down. Then I storm back over to the wreath and yank it off the door, tossing it in the corner of the room.

I catch sight of Mike Newton, standing down by the photocopier with Angela Weber. They're both staring at me; I see the faintest of smirks as I slam my door shut.

"Fucking perfect," I mutter, shaking the coffee off my hand. Who the hell put that thing on my door? Since when have I shown the slightest bit of interest in forest-crap? Or Christmas-crap? Or just crap in general.

I sink into my chair, huffing as I pick up the receiver. After one ring, Charlotte's voice filters through.

"Good morning, Mr. Cullen!"

"I need a shirt."

There's a pause. When she speaks again, the cheeriness from a second ago has faded.

"A shirt?"

"That's what I said," I snip. "And find out whoever put the wreath on my door." _I want them fired._

"The wreath?"

"Yes, the wreath. If you don't know what it is, you can Google it."

Without another word, I hang up the phone.

I open my laptop as the desktop boots up. The day hasn't gotten off to a great start, but I try to focus on my work anyway. Especially since later this afternoon we have a meeting with a potential client, Mr. Black, the dean of the University of Chicago. Our architecture firm is trying to expand its academic profile, and we were contacted by Mr. Black because he's looking to add on a new addition to the campus.

An hour passes. I have a new shirt, a second cup of coffee, and I'm feeling a little more confident and prepared for this afternoon. The University of Chicago would be a huge project for us, and it's really important that we nail this one.

I try to pass the time by busying myself with the more mundane tasks I'm obliged to handle. As I'm looking through our statements from November, I notice something out of the ordinary. A large payment has been made to something called 'CJHD', putting us over our monthly budget. I narrow my eyes at the screen.

Digging deeper, I quickly realize the CEO approved this transaction. I grit my teeth. He usually runs this kind of thing by me first.

I pick up the phone and impatiently tap my pen as I wait for Carlisle's secretary to answer.

"Happy Holidays! Riley speaking."

"Put my father through," I bark.

"Mr. Cullen isn't in yet," he says, unfazed. I hear the tapping of his keyboard in the background.

"It's after ten," I stress. "We have an eleven o'clock, and we need to prepare for the Black meeting."

"The Black meeting was rescheduled," Riley tells me, and I immediately hang up the phone, calling out for Charlotte.

She knocks twice before opening the door, poking her head inside.

"Why wasn't I informed that the Black meeting was rescheduled?"

Her eyes go wide. "Oh, but... you were."

"_Oh, but_," I mock, "I wasn't."

"I'm s-sorry," she stutters. "I forwarded you the email, changed your online schedule, and left a note on your desk this morning." She takes a small step over the threshold and points. "See? Right there."

I glance down and spot the yellow square of paper that reads: 'Black meeting rescheduled for Monday, 10 AM.'

Heat spreads across my neck and I keep my eyes on her messy scrawl.

"Next time, write neater," I snap, waving her off.

"Yes, Mr. Cullen," she says quietly, shutting the door behind her.

Rubbing my neck, my eyes jump from the post-it to my laptop, where the Powerpoint for the meeting is still up. I worked my ass off to get it ready for today, and now I'm being informed that they've put it off another week.

"Perfect," I mutter. "That's just perfect."

A few minutes later, an email pops up on my screen. It's from Charlotte, explaining that the wreath was sent by my father, which means Riley was in charge of ordering it.

My eyes land on the wreath in the corner of the room. The sight of those fucking holly leaves makes me irrationally angry. First he's not telling me what 'CJHD' is or why we're paying them, and now he's responsible for the stupid bush. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm barging out of my office, wreath in hand as I take the elevator up to my father's floor.

Riley is yapping away on the phone when I appear at his desk. Our eyes meet briefly, and he has the nerve to hold up his finger, telling me it'll be a minute.

I laugh humorlessly, tossing the wreath in front of him. His eyes go wide, and he makes the smart decision to end the call.

We look at it in silence for a moment.

"That's supposed to go on your door, you know," he eventually says, sarcasm weaving through his voice.

I glare at him. "Yes, I know. That's where I found it this morning. I don't want one, so I took it down. Where's Mr. Cullen?"

He blinks up at me, looking bored. A by-product of my father being infuriatingly nice is that his employees have a tendency to forget who they're talking to. I've told Dad several times that he needs to be more strict with Riley, but obviously, he hasn't been taking my advice.

"I told you, he isn't in yet. I can tell him to call you when he gets here."

"When will he be here?"

He sighs, as if I'm being a huge inconvenience by asking him to do his job.

"He told me he'd be late this morning. He didn't know when he'd be in."

"Am I the only one working around here?" I ask, not bothering to wait for an answer. "Nevermind. Look—have you heard Mr. Cullen mentioning something called 'CJHD'?"

Riley nods, laughing. "Of course."

I stare expectantly, and then wave my hand to get him to continue.

"It's the company we're using to cater the charity ball."

My irritation loses a bit of steam. Scalp prickling uncomfortably, I look off to the side.

"Oh, right. I forgot about that." My fingers twitch, and I resist the urge to hide them in my pockets.

He arches an eyebrow. "You forgot? How could you forget, it's for yo—"

I clear my throat. "Why aren't we using the same company we hired last year? It was half the price."

His other eyebrow goes up, but he answers my question. "This caterer donates half the proceeds to the local orphanage. Mrs. Cullen wanted them."

Of course she did. Of course my mother is more concerned with the happiness of children who aren't her own.

I can feel my irritation rising again, so I decide to leave before I let it out on Riley.

"Just tell my father to call me when he gets in, alright?" I turn to go, but I don't get very far.

"Don't forget this," Riley calls out, humor clear in his tone. I look back, only to see him holding up the wreath.

That fucking wreath.

Riley smiles and gives it a shake, making the bells ring.

I lose it.

"Do you think I would've dragged that thing up here if I wanted it on my door? I don't celebrate Christmas!" I roar. "Every idiot around here knows that. Even if my father told you to order one for me, what kind of an imbecile would you have to be to actually go through with it?"

I can hear my voice rising with every word, but I can't control it. Rationally, I know this is about more than the fucking wreath, but I can't deal with that right now.

Riley swallows, his arm sinking. I know I should feel bad, but I don't.

"If something like this ever happens again..." I pause, not entirely sure what I was going to say. I can't fire him; he's not my assistant. I can't really threaten him, either, because I doubt that would be tolerated, even from me.

But he still looks freaked out, so I decide to leave it at that.

I keep my expression stern. Once I turn around to leave, my mind comes to a screeching halt when I see who's standing behind me. My stomach drops, and I can't control the expression that appears on my face. I can only stare.

She's changed a lot since the last time I saw her, but somehow, she looks the same.

Her mouth is open, eyes wide and shocked. A part of me immediately—automatically—worries how much of that she heard. But then I remember that I haven't seen her since our high school graduation. We were twelve the last time I even really spoke to her. Why should I care what she thinks of me now?

It's not like her perception of me can get any worse.

I turn my eyes away, only now noticing the spike in my pulse. Swallowing, I look back at Riley. My voice isn't near as level as I want it to be when I speak.

"I want him to call me as soon as he gets in. Understand?"

I don't wait for him to respond. Without looking at her, I stride out the door, but her gaze burns into the back of my head as I walk towards the elevator.

_What is she doing here_?

The further away I get, the harder the shock is hitting me. Oh god, I feel sick.

_Why is she here_?

I jab the down-button too many times, and too fast. I think I'm sort of panicking. Cold sweat is breaking out on my body, and my heart-rate is ridiculous.

Oh, god, oh fuck, what just happened? Why is Bella Swan _here_? Not just in my workplace or outside my father's office, but in Chicago? She's not supposed to be here. She's supposed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else, where she can't look at me with those eyes, those fucking eyes that see me for exactly what I am, forcing me to see it, too.

The collar of my shirt feels too tight.

A second before I see her out of the corner of my eye, I realize that she's right next to me. I stare straight ahead, willing the elevator doors open even as I'm seriously considering making a run for the stairs.

The rest of the floor is quiet. I can hear Riley's phone ringing at the end of the hall. Bella doesn't say anything. I sense how she shifts her weight, but I can't look. My hands are clammy.

But then she inhales, as if preparing to speak. My pulse lurches, hard enough to make me dizzy.

"H—"

The elevator chimes, doors sliding open. The relief that crashes through me almost knocks me sideways. It lasts about a millisecond before I realize she's waiting for the elevator, same as me.

I'll be trapped in a small, confined space with Bella Swan. She's appeared out of nowhere, like a fucking ghost, and all I can think about is how different her face looks now that it's lost that last roundness of youth.

Great. Just fucking _perfect._

We get on at the same time. She presses the button for her floor, two down from mine. Marketing and Human Resources. I don't dare ask, but I can't help but wonder why she would be heading down there.

_Where is she going_?

Careful not to get too close, I lean past her and select my own floor. The elevator starts to move.

She clears her throat. I stare at the small display above the doors.

"So..." Her voice breaks the silence, and my mouth is getting dry. She's quiet for a moment, and the number ticks down. She clears her throat again. "Uhm. Hi."

I want to pretend I haven't heard. I want to ignore her, stop her from digging up old bonds better left broken before she even tries.

But I can't. Her voice isn't what I remembered—older now, and I can tell it's richer even though she's only said three words—but my brow creases at the odd familiarity that hearing it stirs in me.

Without thinking, I incline my head, acknowledging her. She turns to face me.

"Look..." She swallows, and maybe she's nervous, too. "This wasn't exactly how I imagined this happening, but I— Okay, you should know that we might run into each other again, because I work here now."

My hands start to shake.

She _works here_? How is that even possible? I've always known I've had a punishment headed my way, but if this is the manifestation, it's exceeding my wildest nightmares.

I deserve much worse, though. Maybe I should take this and be grateful.

When I don't respond, she sighs and steps closer. I resist the urge to move away.

"I don't want this to be weird, Edward," she says, the elevator getting closer to my floor and my freedom. "We can be civil toward one another. We can be adults, and—"

"Who said anything about not being civil?" I ask, in direct opposition of my very real need to keep it as far from civil as I can. I keep my eyes trained on the display, willing it to reach my floor faster.

"You can't even look at me," she accuses quietly.

I swallow, tapping my foot impatiently. "Why would I need to look at you?"

Silence takes over, and despite what I said, it takes everything I have _not _to look at her. I don't need to glance her way to see how she's staring at me. I know what she thinks of me, and I know what will be in her eyes.

"I know this time of year is hard," she says, and that's when my eyes do snap in her direction. Unbidden, anger flares in my chest. "What happened was... I— I think about it all the time, and I know you—"

"Do you?" I say, my voice low and harsh. Her eyes stare up at me, and the rage explodes through my system. The cold sweat her appearance caused burns away as it spreads. "You don't know anything about me. Not anymore."

The elevator slows to a stop. As her face pales under my anger, the doors slide open on my floor.

"Welcome to Cullen & Platt, Isabella," I say, sarcasm finding its way into my voice without any effort from me. "I'm sure you'll enjoy your time here."

When I get to my office, I slam the door hard enough to rattle the windows.


	2. The Whiskey

**Chapter Two: The Whiskey**

"What are you doing here?" Aro asks, looking up from his computer when I enter his office.

"This _is _my place of employment," I deadpan, letting myself sink into one of his leather chairs.

He casts a quick glance at his watch. "I thought you and your father had the Black meeting today?"

"So did I. Apparently it's been pushed back to next week. Of course, I wasn't informed until this morning," I add with a scowl. "Although, being Co-CEO, you should've known this."

He waves me off. "They only keep me around because I look good in a suit. Besides, I have other important things to deal with, like what to get my wife for Christmas."

"Of course. Christmas is much more important than trying to land an account that will double our yearly earnings. Whoever said money doesn't buy happiness was clearly delusional," I mutter. "And poor," I add as an afterthought.

Chuckling lightly, he pulls the glasses off his face. He quietly assesses me for a moment, then asks, "Tough day, kid?"

I merely grunt in response, not revealing to him exactly _why _I'm having a tough day. He may be my uncle, but he's also one of the CEOs of this company. No sense forcing him to listen to me gripe about the idiots who have tainted my day so far.

Aro pulls me out of my thoughts with: "You didn't appreciate the wreath?"

I glare at the small smile he gives me. "I should've known it was you."

"A little Christmas cheer never hurt anyone," he says, sliding his glasses back on and turning his attention back to his computer.

"Actually, it did," I snap, causing him to laugh. "It poked me in the eye when I was walking into my office this morning."

"Well, that's unfortunate. But your eye is still intact, as far as I can see."

I pick at the stitching on the chair. The sound of his clock ticking fills the room. It's nearing two in the afternoon, and since running into Bella, my focus has been nonexistent. It's a miracle in disguise that the Black meeting was rescheduled for next week, because I honestly don't know how I would have been able to pay attention.

Memories of Bella cloud my mind and her name lingers on my tongue. I want to ask my uncle whose idea it was to hire her, but I wouldn't dare. I don't _want _to say her name aloud. I don't want to think about her, and I definitely don't want to be forced into talking about certain things once she's the topic of conversation.

Aro clears his throat and my head snaps up. I meet his eyes. He stares, almost waiting expectantly for me to speak again. We both say nothing.

"I should let you work," I finally say, smoothing the wrinkles from my slacks once I stand.

"Oh, Edward?" he calls out when I reach the door. I turn around, greeted with a friendly smile. "What are your plans for Christmas Eve?"

My mouth opens and it takes me a second to form an answer. "Working," I say simply.

His pen taps against the wood of his desk. "Think about attending the charity ball. I know people would really appreciate it if you showed up this year."

Laughing humorlessly, I look away. No one wants me there, and now that Bella is an employee here, it's likely she'll be attending the event. So, no. Showing up to the charity ball is the last fucking thing I want to do. I'd rather a wreath poke me in the eye again.

"Your mother would want you there," he offers, his face solemn.

That's not true. My mother stopped asking me to attend Jasper's charity event years ago. I'm about to say this, but I stop myself.

"I'll think about it." We both know I'm lying.

"Out of respect for your brother," he adds quietly, pulling his eyes from mine. It's his way of letting me know the conversation is over.

When I leave his office, I resist the urge to scream. I want to loosen my tie, but my hands stay calmly placed in the pockets of my slacks. I step onto the elevator, sighing in relief when I find it's empty.

As the day goes on, it turns out that I wasn't lying to Aro. I _do _think about the charity ball. So much in fact, that I find myself gathering my things and leaving the office around six o'clock in the evening. It's not early by any means, but it is for me.

My early departure causes the security guard to raise an eyebrow, but he doesn't say a word to me. He never does.

On the way home, I stop by Whole Foods to grab a few things. I manage to make my way through the store, grabbing exactly what I need, in under ten minutes. Waiting in the slow-moving checkout line tests my patience. If I had known it was going to be so crowded at this time of night, I wouldn't have left work early.

All of the employees in this store are wearing Santa hats. I study the girl behind the register. The ball of her hat keeps bouncing against her face as she moves. I wonder if it annoys her. She looks happy enough, but maybe she's just amazing at customer service. Or highly medicated.

The line moves forward, and I start putting my groceries up. The woman in front of me, with her child clinging to her leg, has chocolates and candy canes and gift tags, eggs and flour and colored sprinkles, and all sorts of other Christmas-related things.

I look at the old woman behind me. Her basket isn't full, but I can see three packs of tinsel and a small fruit cake in there. I feel like her eyes linger on my measly pile of vegetables, milk and shaving cream, which suddenly seems incredibly sad. I fidget awkwardly. I almost want to buy something Christmas-y now so I won't feel out of place.

The girl at the register smiles in greeting when she scans my groceries, but she doesn't start a conversation with me like she did with the mother. Maybe my lack of holiday-cheer is freaking her out. I almost apologize, but she probably thinks I'm a creep anyway, so I don't want to make it worse.

Once back in my car, I loosen my tie and sag in my seat. Today has been long. Way too long. I stare aimlessly out the windshield.

_Bella Swan_.

My stomach tightens uncomfortably. Of all the times she could appear, she _had to_ do it a week before Christmas? As if Christmas isn't bad enough without her making things even harder.

I rub a hand through my hair, sighing. My mind has long since put her and what happened in the same place, where memories are painful enough to feel like a punch to the gut, but seeing her today was worse than I ever could've imagined.

Even now, just remembering her face right before I left her in the elevator... I swallow against the tightness in my throat.

Her face flashes past my eyes again, and my neck heats up in embarrassment.

God, I was such a dick.

"Fuck," I say, the word carried on a sigh. I didn't even try to be nice to her. Is being an asshole just my default now? I must've added another few things on her 'Reasons Edward Cullen Is The Scum of The Earth' list.

She can't be here. Why is she here? Why is she working at Cullen & Platt? She wasn't surprised to see me, so she must've known I worked there, too. So why? Why is she torturing me? What does she want?

My hands feel clammy, and my chest constricts around a sudden surge of nervousness. I wipe my hands on my pants. This is ridiculous. For god's sake, I haven't seen her in ten years—she shouldn't be able to affect me like this.

I start the car, turning the radio off when strings of 'Silent Night' warble out of the speakers. I need to stop thinking about her. I need to get a grip. I'm a grown man. I can do this.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I'm still trying to convince myself of that.

Traffic is slow, everyone driving carefully because of the ice. Normally I'd be annoyed, but all I have to go home to is an empty apartment, so it's not like I'm in a rush.

Once I'm finally home, I put my grocery bag down by the door. I suddenly feel a little lost. Aimless, almost. I look around my dark apartment. I don't want to be here, but there's no where else I want to be either. I don't want to be anywhere. I don't want to do anything.

I drop my keys in the bowl, and try to muster enough incentive to take my coat off. Even that seems pointless. I do it anyway.

After putting my groceries away, I sit down on the couch. I should make dinner, but I'm not hungry.

My complete apathy towards everything makes me want to sink into the cushions and never resurface. So I just sit, staring.

Bella Swan is here. In Chicago. Last I'd heard, she went off to New York for college. Mom tried to keep me updated on how she was doing for a while, but just like with everything, she soon stopped. There's no point trying with me, apparently.

Sometimes she still mentions Charlie, as if she's hoping I'll suddenly show some interest in her old friend. I don't.

I am interested, though. I barely admit it even to myself, but anything related to Bella pokes and picks at me, making me think of her, making me wonder how she's doing. But the pain that follows thoughts of her makes this sick obsession fucking agony.

It's not that I hate her. I don't. I hate what I do to myself whenever I think about her.

I groan, pushing the heels of my hands against my eyes. Why is this happening to me? I don't need this right now.

My breathing gets faster. I unbutton the top of my shirt, rubbing a hand over my chest. I can't sit still. I start pacing the length of my apartment, the tightness across my shoulders making me shift them every few seconds.

I need to calm down. I need to make all these thoughts stop, because if I continue down this road, I know which memories will surface, and I _really_ don't need that to happen.

As if by divine intervention, I come to a stop in front of my liquor cabinet. I stand there, blinking. I'm not a big drinker—I'll have a beer every now and then, but nothing more than that. My first ever kegger in college was an embarrassing experience that showed everyone I'm the lightest lightweight in the history of the world. A four foot Asian girl drank me under the table. Since then, I've avoided anything stronger than a beer.

But over the years, I've somehow ended up with a well-stocked liquor cabinet. They're mostly gifts from customers and business partners. All of them are still unopened. I've never even offered them to guests, because I don't have guests.

Grabbing a lowball glass from the shelf, I stare blankly at the bottles of liquor in front of me. Half a second passes. I don't waste anymore time on choosing which whiskey I want to make me numb. I just grab a bottle and pour. It's not like I know the difference anyway.

Somehow, two hours pass. I refill my glass once. Or twice, I can't remember. I find myself sitting at my piano, but not actually playing it. I catch myself whistling 'Silent Night' and then I laugh.

"Fucking..." I mumble for no real reason, setting my glass on the top of the piano.

I haven't played in years, but I'm suddenly determined to start again, because that's what the whiskey does to me. It makes me brave. It makes me want to _do_ things again. If I knew this would happen, maybe I would've cracked open that bottle a long time ago.

But it has its drawbacks. I've always been aware of my many faults, but as I lose my balance and ability to think straight, my ability to hate myself becomes stronger than ever.

I was an awful brother. I'm a terrible son. I'm a horrible friend.

But I can't do anything to change who I've become because of what's done. Because of what I did.

"It's all your fault, Edward," I tell myself, staring down at the keys. I blink as they blur together. "All your fault."

I take a lengthy gulp of whiskey, keeping the glass in my left hand as my right hovers above the keys of the piano. My index finger presses down on a key, softly at first. The sound barely breaks the silence of the room.

Tilting my head back, I empty the glass. When my finger meets the ivory this time, it's louder and with purpose.

I want the silence to end.

I want to drown everything out.

And so I do.

Sometime later, I find myself waking up on the couch. The room is deceivingly dark. I don't remember turning out the lights before I fell asleep. Then again, I don't exactly remember falling asleep.

In my disoriented state, I sit up and rub at my eyes. Blinking a few times, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness.

"Oh, good. You're alive," a voice next to me speaks.

I fall off the couch when I make out the figure of a girl sitting in the chair opposite of me.

"Holy shit," I gasp, scrambling away from her.

"I actually prefer Alice," she says simply.

I trip over my feet as I get up, every bone in my body vibrating. Panicked, I rush over to the doorway, flicking on the lights.

The girl is gone.

The chair is empty.

Pulling at my hair, I stare in confusion. I could've fucking sworn...

"Looking for me?" the voice calls out, and the girl is somehow standing next to me.

It's then that I realize I'm probably dead.

* * *

**Happy Holidays, you guys! Thanks so much for reading. **


	3. The First Ghost

**Chapter Three: The First Ghost  
**

I back away from the girl.

She's smirking at me, hands clasped behind her back. For some reason this makes me nervous, more so than I already am. Is she holding a weapon?

I take a few more steps back and we stare wordlessly at each other. She's young, and fucking tiny. But her posture, or maybe the way she looks at me, makes me feel like the younger one in the room.

Also, she's wearing a blazer, which seems very formal for someone her age.

But really, it doesn't matter how old she is, because what matters is how the hell she got into my apartment.

"How did you get into my apartment?" I ask, swallowing. "If you leave now, I won't press charges."

Her smirk widens, and she tsks at me. "I think, 'Who are you?' is a more prudent question. And good luck pressing charges. I'd like to see that."

She steps forward; I back away. She follows me, still smirking. If I didn't already think I've somehow died, I'd assume she was a psychopath here to kill me.

Then, as I back straight into my piano, it dawns on me. "Christ, you killed me, didn't you?"

She stops, and her smirk quickly drops away. "Huh?"

"I'm dead, right? I mean, I'm either dead or dreaming, but I'm going with dead, so obviously you killed me."

Her confused expression tells me that she's definitely in her teens—only that age-group is capable of letting you know exactly how stupid they think you are with a single look.

"What are you talking about?"

"Why did you kill me?"

"You're not dead, doofus."

"Then why are you here? How did you get into my apartment? _Who are you_?"

Her smirk returns. "Ah, there it is. Well, you see, the reason I'm here is tied in with who I am, and I'd love to answer that question for you, I really would. But you seem much more concerned with how I got into your apartment, so let's get that pressing issue cleared up before we do anything else."

Raising her fist in front of her mouth, she theatrically clears her throat before spreading her arms wide. The room goes silent and before I realize what's happening, she vanishes.

My scream catches in my throat and I quickly turn in a circle, frantically looking for her.

"Right behind you, big boy," she says, sounding almost bored. I whip around to find her sitting cross-legged on top of my piano.

I splutter, for some reason more worried about her shoes leaving scuff-marks than I am with the fact that she just teleported.

"Impressive, right?" she says, propping her chin in her hand. "_That's _how I got in."

I blink at her. "I... need to sit down."

She nods, as if I needed her approval. I stumble over to the couch and practically collapse into the seat. I scrub a hand over my face and close my eyes; I count to five in my head, expecting her to be gone when I open them.

She's not.

"So, now that you know how I got in here, do you want to continue with the rest of your questions, or do you need a break? I mean, take a breather if you want, but we don't have all night, so chop-chop."

In what I'm thinking will be a recurring theme with this girl, I stare at her. "What?"

"We've got shit to do," she says, tapping the back of her wrist.

"What kind of... shit?"

"You'll figure it out, don't worry. Now, breather or more questions?"

I take a moment to think. She raises expectant eyebrows.

"More questions," I say, not entirely sure if that's what I actually want to do. To be honest, what I really want is to not be dead anymore, but I don't think that's possible.

She wiggles in her seat, getting comfortable. "Ask away."

"How... I mean, what... uh..."

"We covered 'how' already."

"Oh, right." I shake my head. "Uh, so... What... I mean, what are you doing here? Who _are _you?"

Widening her eyes, she wiggles her fingers and puts on an English accent. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Paaaaast!"

Again, I stare at her.

She makes a ghost-noise, but upon my lack of a reaction, she drops her arms and looks at me with great disappointment.

"Really? Nothing? What, don't you read? Ever heard of Dickens?"

"I... Of course I have."

"_So_..." She gestures at herself. After a moment of silence from me, she huffs. "Christmas Past! Ghost! Come on, man."

I almost want to laugh. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I am."

"Like... What, _A Christmas Carol_?"

"Not technically, but kinda."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means you're not actually Ebenezer Scrooge, and I'm not actually The Ghost of Christmas Past, but the similarities are there."

"I'm not like..." I begin, but stop when she raises an eyebrow. "Okay, I see your point."

"Yeah, and I died like, ninety years ago, so that definitely makes me a ghost."

"Oh. Right." I pull on the back of my neck. "Of course you are."

She scoots off the piano. "Okay! Are you ready to get this show on the road, or what?"

I hold up a hand. "No, not really. I'm still a little confused about what's actually happening here."

"If you know _A Christmas Carol_, I'm pretty sure you can figure it out."

"What, so you're actually going to show me my past? How does that work?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"It's very complicated and boring, so all you really need to know is that we're going into your past."

Somehow, I'm not at all reassured.

"Okay, but... why? Does this happen for all dead people? A life-flashing kind of thing?"

"You're not dead, Edward," she says, with that expression that tells me exactly how stupid she thinks I am.

I'm pretty sure I _am _dead, no matter what she says, but I figure it's best not to argue with her. Or with ghosts in general, really.

"Anyway. I'm here to show you your past, because you've got some issues, man," she says, straightening her blazer.

I frown. "Excuse me?"

"Oh please." She rolls her eyes. "Issues. You have a lot of them. We're going to help you."

"_We_?"

"Are you being serious right now? _A Christmas Carol_," she says, flinging her arms out in exasperation. "Three ghosts and blah blah blah."

I quickly try to remember everything I know about the story. Again, I'm not at all reassured.

"So, what? Past, Present, and Future?"

"In a nutshell," she says, shrugging. "We skipped the whole Jacob Marley thing, because honestly, it's sort of redundant, but I think you'll be happy with the experience anyway."

"Uh... I'm—... Okay, look, can we maybe reschedule this?" I say, rising from the couch. "I've had a pretty tough day, and the last thing I want to do is look at my past with a ghost-girl who teleports."

"I don't teleport," she says, looking affronted.

I scoff. "Okay. Whatever you say, ghost-girl."

"My name is Alice, and I don't! It's a ghost thing. It has some science-y name that I can't remember, but he knows all about that stuff, and he told me."

"Who did?"

"None of your business," she says, crossing her arms. "Bottom-line is that I don't teleport, and neither will you. And no, we can't reschedule. We're sorry you've had a terrible day, but this has been planned for a while, and the time-frame doesn't take your delicate sensibilities into account."

"Hey!"

"No, I'm sorry, it just can't be done," she says, walking over to me. She's so tiny she barely reaches my chest. "You don't have a choice, Edward. You will be visited by three ghosts. We will all show you what you need to see, and at the end of this experience, you better have learned something, or we'll just come back and do it all over again."

She points a menacing finger at my face. "So learn something, because believe it or not, I have better shit to do than helping you pull your head out of your ass."

I gape. "That's... rude."

"Yeah well, I'm dead, so I'm allowed to be as rude as I want. When you're dead, I might be nicer to you."

"But I'm dead now."

"What are you talking about?" She seems frustrated. This impression is enhanced when she hits my arm. "You're not dead, for the hundredth time! Why do you think you're dead?"

"Because there's a strange girl in my apartment who says she's the Ghost of Christmas Past! That just doesn't happen. I'm dead, obviously."

She takes a step back and studies me for a moment. "You know, I'm surprised you haven't gone with 'dreaming', or 'passed out from drinking' or something more logical. But to be honest, it doesn't matter, because neither of those things are true. This is really happening, and we are actually heading into your past, so just stop being an idiot for a couple of hours, and all of this will be a much smoother experience."

"But I don't want an experience."

"Well, tough shit, because you're getting one," she says. "You really don't have a choice. Now, ground-rules."

"There are ground-rules?"

"Well, not so much _rules _as general advice," she says, lifting a shoulder. "So listen closely. First, don't ever walk off on your own. Mostly because I don't want to waste time looking for you, but also because without me, you'll be stuck in the past. Trust me when I say that you really don't want that."

"No, probably not," I mutter, and she shushes me.

"Second, the people in the past won't be able to see or hear us, so don't bother trying to get their attention. It won't work."

"Okay. Cool," I say, nodding. She comes over and links her arm through mine. I stare down at her, and suddenly, I see her true age in the stillness of her eyes. She looks up at me, solemn and serious for the first time.

"And third... Edward, you might not like everything I'm going to show you, but remember that we're doing this for you. You've carried a lot of guilt with you all these years, and it's weighed on you. Your back is so bent from the strain that all you see now is the ground below you and the road you've already walked. You need to look _up_, Edward."

Her words make me feel hollow. Like she reached in and ripped out my darkest shame just to show it to me. My eyes prickle, and I want to look away from her, but I can't.

She squeezes my arm. "Don't waste this opportunity to see a different perspective just because you can't let go of the weight. Just let go, and _see_."

With that, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and everything goes dark.

* * *

**Thank you guys so much for reading - we can't even tell you how happy we are that you're enjoying this.  
**

**Massive thanks to Erica and Kim for reading this over.  
**


	4. The Past

**Chapter Four: The Past**

"Ta-daa!" Alice sings loudly. I open my eyes, only to immediately close them again.

This tactic didn't work before, but I'm hoping it will now. I count to five, and slowly squint through one eye.

Nope, still here.

Shit. Well, that didn't go as planned.

"Do you know where we are right now?" Alice says, letting go of my arm.

"No, I have no idea," I say flatly, glancing around the house my parents have lived in since before I can remember.

Several years ago, my mother decided she wanted a more 'open, flowing atmosphere' and knocked down every wall that wasn't bearing. Those walls were still non-existent at Thanksgiving. So I guess the only explanation for their sudden reappearance here is that I am, in fact, in my own past.

_This is so weird.  
_

"I'm just checking to make sure your brain wasn't damaged during the ride over."

"How thoughtful," I mutter. Her final words to me in the present are still echoing in my mind, and I'm wondering if this memory is something I won't enjoy seeing.

Although, to be honest, there are few moments in my life that I'd be happy to relive, so I guess what Alice really meant to say was, 'All of this is going to suck major ass.'

"What, uh... what year is this?" I feel ridiculous for even asking.

"1990."

I try to remember if anything happened that year—this year? Jesus, this is confusing—but I was only six, so the memories are hazy. Before I can ask her why we're here, I'm startled by a knock at the door.

Alice claps her hands excitedly. I turn to see who's there, but she grabs my arms and yanks me backwards. I hit the wall with an embarrassing grunt.

"What did you do that for?" I hiss, glaring at her. She stands next to me, her spiky hair brushing against a picture frame.

"Your mom is coming to open the door. Trust me when I say that you do _not_ want them to touch you."

"Wait, what?" I ask, suddenly very alarmed.

Before she can answer, I hear the clicking of heels coming towards us, and I look up just in time to see Mom walking into the hallway.

"Holy shit," I say, staring at her. She looks so much younger.

Her hair is darker and doesn't have a hint of silver. There are no wrinkles by her eyes. Her lips are less thin, and she even seems taller, somehow.

This is the Mom who cut the crusts off my sandwiches. The one who helped me into my Spiderman-pajamas and tucked me into bed every night. This is the Mom who kissed all my bruises, and stood behind me when I brushed my teeth, just to make sure I did it right. This is the Mom from before, the one who'd never experienced the grief that left such a mark that I can _still_ see it in her eyes, after all these years.

She walks past us, a happy smile on her face. The scent of her perfume brings back so many memories that I almost choke.

I'm seeing the mother I remember from the only time in my life when I was truly happy, and the difference between her and the Mom I saw three weeks ago is almost scary. I might be dreaming, or I might be dead, but something is going on, that's for sure.

Alice nudges my side.

"This is my favorite part," she whispers.

"What?"

She points to the doorway Mom came through, and a second later, a young boy in a Christmas sweater comes barrelling in after her.

I immediately realize the young boy is me.

I have never seen anything so surreal in my life.

It's me, but it's _not _me, because my mind absolutely refuses to accept that there can be two versions of myself in the same place. _Seeing it_, where six-year-old me runs past twenty-eight-year-old me, is so illogical that even here, in La-La-Land, it doesn't make any sense whatsoever.

I can refer to myself in plural. That's just not okay.

His hair is still baby-blond, but I know it'll darken in a few years. It bounces around his head as he runs.

"Look at your chubby cheeks!" Alice says, sounding delighted. I shove her away from me.

"I don't have chubby cheeks."

"Well, not now, obviously," she says, rolling her eyes. "But look how cute you used to be."

She clasps her hands under her chin and stares at the kid adoringly.

"Shut up," I advise.

My mother opens the door, and I blink when I see Charlie Swan standing on the porch. Partially hidden behind his legs is a little girl in a red, puffy coat, her white-stocking-clad knees sticking out the bottom.

_Bella_.

"Charlie!" My mother sounds so happy. She gives him a hug and ushers him and Bella inside. "I'm so glad you could make it. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," Charlie says back, unsuccessfully trying to get Bella to step out from behind his legs. "Thanks for having us."

My eyes flicker to the little boy. I can vaguely recall this moment, and the cloudy memory that plays behind my mind's eye is fucking with my head.

I'm remembering the memory of this memory while watching myself making the memory.

"This is so messed up," I mumble, shoving a hand into my hair.

Alice pats my arm. "I know, but it gets easier. Just pretend like logic doesn't exist, and you'll be fine."

I make a noise, but Alice shushes me, pointing towards the boy.

"Edward?" My mother holds a hand out to the kid, urging him to step forward. "You remember Charlie and Bella, don't you?"

He looks back and forth between her and them, and then nods haltingly.

"Aren't you going to say hi?" Charlie says to his daughter, who immediately shakes her head.

He looks embarrassed, but Mom sinks down to her level. Bella presses closer to her father's legs without taking her eyes off Mom.

"This is the first Christmas Bella and Charlie spent with you guys," Alice whispers.

"Why are you whispering?" I ask her.

"Shh, just pay attention."

I make a face at her, but turn back to watch when Mom speaks.

"Hi, Bella. I'm really glad you wanted to spend Christmas with us," she says, and even though I can't see her face, I can hear her warm smile in her voice.

Bella seems to deliberate what to do; she looks at mini-me for a second and then returns her gaze to my mother.

"Me too," she says quietly. Charlie smiles in relief.

"Dinner will be ready soon. You can go watch TV with Edward and Jasper, if you want," Mom says.

The kid nods, and although I can't actually tell from his face, I remember how excited I was that Bella was there; Jasper, being the oldest, had taken control of the remote, and no matter how much I whined, he refused to change the channel. I was convinced Bella would want to watch the same thing I wanted to watch, just because we were both six, and together we could make Jasper listen.

Bella looks up at her dad, and when he playfully tugs at the end of her hat, she finally smiles.

Mini-me barely waits until she's taken off her coat and shoes before he grabs her arm and guides her down the hallway.

"Come on, I'll show you where the TV is," he says. "Do you like candy canes? Mom says we can have one before dinner."

They disappear around the corner, and I look at Alice.

"Do we follow them?"

"Not necessarily," she says, focusing on my mother and Charlie.

"That went well," he says quietly, taking his own coat off. "I think that's the first time she's willingly left my side since... Well, since her Mom..." He trails off, sighing.

I frown. If this was the first Christmas they spent with us, it would mean Bella's mom had left them that summer. Esme and Charlie had been good friends since college, and when she found out his wife had up and left him and their young daughter, Mom—ever the kind soul—had invited them to spend Christmas Day with us, and it became tradition.

Not long after this, I'd start telling people Bella was my best friend.

I wonder now if Bella ever came to terms with her mom leaving. We weren't really in a position to talk about it once we grew older, but I know it bothered her when we were young.

I watch as Mom puts a hand on his arm and squeezes.

"How are you holding up, Charlie?"

"I'm alright," he says. "I'm just worried about Bells. It's her first Christmas without her mom, and I just... I don't want her to be unhappy, you know?"

"I know," Esme says, and they start walking down the hallway, turning into the kitchen. I follow them, Alice close behind me. "I hope she and Edward get along. He could use a friend."

Mom sounds worried, and I walk closer, not wanting to miss a word. What does she mean, I need a friend? I had friends. Loads of them. There was... And, uh...

My stomach sinks as I realize the only true friend I had when I was younger was Bella.

Well, damn. Mom was right. Mini-me did need a friend.

"School not working out for him?" Charlie asks, and Mom shakes her head.

"No, school is fine. He's a smart boy, he's just—I don't know, he's just doesn't seem interested in the other kids. And it doesn't bother him, at all. He wants to play with Jasper, and that's it." She sighs. "It worries me."

"He'll be fine," Charlie says as they walk into the dining room, where my father, Uncle Aro and his wife are chatting, glasses in hand.

I stay out in the hallway, trying to think back on this time in my life. I can't really remember this. I don't know if I was unhappy about not having any friends, or if maybe I just didn't care. The thing Mom said about Jasper was right, though—I idolized him, and wherever he went, I'd tag along when he'd let me.

I clear my throat. When I turn, Alice is watching me with those calm, old eyes again. They make me nervous.

"Why this memory? What's so special about it?" I ask her, because what's the point of all this if I don't know what I'm supposed to be figuring out?

Even before she speaks, I know she won't tell me. "That's not how this works, Edward," she says, smiling. All wise-looking and shit.

"Of course it isn't," I mutter, looking off to the side. "So what else do I need to see in this delightful memory?"

"Why, do you want to leave?"

"I didn't want to be here in the first place," I remind her.

She snorts and steps closer. "Right. Well, then you'll be happy to know that there's no other super-important thing that you need to see here."

"_Other_ super-important thing? Are you saying that what we just saw _was _super-important?" I hope she can see every ounce of skepticism I feel over this extreme exaggeration.

"Indeed it was, young grasshopper." She links her arm through mine while I contemplate how weird it is that a girl half my age can call me 'young grasshopper' without having to be sarcastic. "But I guess it's too much to ask that you'd get it after five minutes, so let's continue our journey, shall we?"

She closes her eyes, and in recognizing the sign, I follow suit. I don't really notice the transition—there's only a moment of complete and heavy silence, and then Alice lets go of my arm.

I look around. We're still at my parents' house—looks like the basement after we redid it—and it must be another one of my past Christmases. Mom never really decorated for the holidays down here, but there's some tinsel and a two-foot plastic tree in the corner, with blinking colored lights.

Great. More Christmas. Just what I wanted.

The room is empty, and dark. I can hear a vague hint of music through the ceiling. I look at Alice with raised eyebrows.

She makes a show of looking at her watch-less wrist, theatrically counting down, "Five... four... three... two... one."

The door at the top of the stairs opens immediately.

Creepy.

We both turn to look. A young me, but older than in the last memory, takes a few steps down the stairs. A sliver of light illuminates him. He looks around, and in finding the place empty, his shoulders relax. Grinning, he bounds down the steps.

The door closes, throwing the basement back into a red-green-and-blue blinking hell. Bella's descent down the stairs is slower, and as soon as I see her, I know when this is. I haven't thought about it in awhile, but I remember that sweater. It's hard to forget a sequined reindeer with googly-eyes and an actual bow on its head.

I don't like remembering this year, because it was the last time Christmas meant anything but pain.

I look at the kid's happy face. Only nine years old and not a care in the world. I feel sorry for him, because a year from now, everything will be different.

I want to warn him, somehow. The only thing I've ever really wished for is the chance to go back and change what happened. Now I find myself here, standing in front of my younger self, just like I've wished for, but in some perverse, cruel twist of circumstances, I can't do anything. He can't hear me. I can't give him a message, because this isn't real.

I know what will happen, and I can't stop it. I'm supposed to be learning something here, but all I get is torture.

The kid hurries over to some boxes stacked in a corner and starts digging through them. Bella makes her way over to the couch, watching him curiously. He straightens up with a wrapped gift in his hands.

And I use 'wrapped' lightly. I think it's more tape than paper.

"This is for you," he says shyly, sitting next to her on the couch.

"You got me a present?" she asks, face lighting up when he places the gift in her hands.

He shrugs, smiling. "You're my best friend."

"You're my best friend, too," she says quietly, almost like it's a secret. "Do I have to wait to open it?"

"No, open it now," he urges.

My chest feels too tight. I listen to them giggle and watch as Bella attempts to tear the wrapping paper. She can't do it alone, because of all the tape, so he joins in, and they're both laughing and trying to open the gift. The paper is soon discarded on the floor and Bella brightens as she stares at the stuffed animal in her lap.

"I know you asked for a puppy and your dad said no, so I thought this would make you happy until he says yes," he explains, and damn. I had game.

Alice leans over and murmurs, "Look how sweet you were." I shove her away again.

"I'm still sweet," I protest.

Alice scoffs, but doesn't say anything else.

"I love it. Thank you, Edward!" Bella beams.

"You're welcome."

"I put your gift under the tree."

"I know." He grins. "I saw it when I was looking earlier."

"I hope you didn't shake the box," she says. "It could break. I made it myself."

"You did?" he asks, looking surprised. "I did the dishes for an entire month so I could save enough money to buy your present," he tells her proudly.

"I thought you were saving to buy a Super NES?"

"I was." He looks down, cheeks slightly burning. "But when I did the math, I realized it was going to take a _lot_more dirty dishes. Jasper and I are still hoping the Nintendo is under the tree."

"That would be cool."

"Yeah. My friend already has one and I got to play it when I was at his house. You'll really like it. It's fun."

Bella looks up when he says this, smiling slowly. Before she can say anything, my mom calls out, telling them it's time to eat.

They grin at one another before they run up the stairs, disappearing out of sight.

Alice and I stand in silence for a moment.

"So... That was fun."

"It was, wasn't it?" She looks very happy with herself.

"Another important moment, was it?"

She gives me a side-eye. "Obviously."

"_Obviously_? No, nothing about this is obvious. I don't get why we're here. So I gave her a Christmas present, big deal."

"It is a big deal, Edward, and you'll see why. Eventually." She looks me up and down dubiously. "I hope so, anyway. You just need to stop overthinking everything."

"No, I think you should stop _under_thinking stuff. I think you're being way too casual about all of this."

"I think that's just because I get it, and you still have your head stuck up your—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, up my ass," I interrupt her. "When do I get to go home?"

She widens her eyes sarcastically. "But you are home, Edward."

"Shut up."

"Fine, fine. We just have a couple more stops, so let's get going."

Before I can say another word, she grabs my arm, and closes her eyes. I'm about to do it too, but at the last second I feel a surge of defiance. Maybe I _won't_ close my eyes.

As if she knows, she digs her nails into my arm. "Close your eyes, Edward," she mutters, without opening hers.

I don't have to do what she says. I'm a grown man. I'll keep my eyes open if I want to.

She sighs. "Suit yourself."

I immediately regret my decision. We disappear from the basement, and it's like we're thrown into nothing and everything all at once. I can't see or hear anything, and that just makes it worse. I lose all sense of space and direction. It feels like my head is about to explode.

And then it's suddenly over. Cold air rushes over me, and I dimly register that I've fallen to my knees. I'm so dizzy I can't tell up from down.

I think I might puke.

"Maybe next time you'll keep your eyes closed," Alice says, sounding smug.

I wish I could say something back, but if I open my mouth, I'll vomit, and I'm pretty sure Alice would just laugh at me. I put my hands down on the ground, focusing on just breathing.

After a moment, I realize I'm sitting in something very wet, and very cold. My fingers are going numb. I squint, and all I see is white. It takes a second, but then I understand that it's snow.

I look to the side and see Alice's black boots.

"Where the hell are we now?" I croak, slowly straightening up.

She doesn't say anything. I look up at her face, and she's staring at me like that again, with those sad, old eyes. I don't understand her expression, but my body reacts to it anyway. For some reason, my pulse picks up.

"Where are we?" I ask again.

She presses her lips together and turns her eyes to the ground. My stomach tightens nervously.

I almost don't want to look, but I turn my head. Bile rises when I see the frozen lake.

I know where we are.

I stagger to my feet, gulping air. _No_. No, we can't be here, she can't have taken me here, not this memory, not here.

"No," I tell her, shaking my head. "No. Not this. I don't want to see this."

"Edward..."

"No. No, I won't. We're not seeing this." Ice cold dread seeps down my spine. My body is going numb, and I can't breathe. I stumble back. I can't be here. I can't see this.

"Edward, it's okay, I—"

I turn on her.

"It's not fucking okay!" I scream, my voice breaking. "Take me out! Please, just take me out, I can't—"

In the distance, I hear voices. They get louder, as if they're arguing.

"I can't," I gasp, moving further away. Alice just stares at me. My heart beats out of control.

The voices are yelling now. I know exactly what they're saying, even though I can't make out the words. I know exactly how Jasper is standing in front of me, with Bella to the side, trying to calm us both down. I know exactly how we ignore her, and how I push Jasper to just do it then. _Just do it then_, I'd said.

And then he did.

Tears sting behind my eyes, and I grab Alice's arms.

"Take me home," I say, desperation tinging my voice. "Please, just take me home, I can't see this. Don't make me see this."

"Edward, you—"

"No! Take me out!" I scream, shaking her now. I know what's about to happen, and I can't be here for it. I can't relive this, I can't watch it happen one more time.

Her mouth moves soundlessly, and she looks over to the source of the yelling, as if she's debating what to do.

"Alice! I can't do this! Take me out!"

Her face twists, but then she grabs my arms and closes her eyes. The last thing I hear before we fall into darkness is a piercing scream tearing through the frozen air.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading, even though it's not like, Christmas anymore or whatever. But if you let yourself believe, Christmas can be in your heart...  
**

**Okay, no. I'm not even going there.**

**So much love to Erica and Kim for reading over this. They are seriously the best.**


	5. The Goodbye

**Chapter Five: The Goodbye  
**

I feel solid ground beneath my feet. My eyes stay tightly pressed together for fear of where we are now. I can't trust this. I can't trust Alice, not after what she just tried to make me see; what she tried to make me relive.

I can feel warmth on my skin and hear faint sounds from a television. The laughs of a fake audience fill the room.

"Edward. It's okay," Alice whispers, tugging on my arm.

I breathe out through my nose and blink my eyes open to find myself standing in my old room. There are movie posters tacked on my walls. There are books overflowing from the shelves onto the floor. A desk cluttered with a monstrosity of a computer.

I see a calendar on the wall and notice the year is 2000, which would make me sixteen. When I'm done taking everything in, I spot my teenage self sitting on a twin-sized bed in the corner of the room.

But I don't care. I don't care where we are, as long as it's my past.

Alice gives me a small, reassuring smile. I don't return it.

I don't want to do this anymore. I'm done. Since I now know Alice can decide when we leave, I'm about to tell her to take me home.

But then I hear _her _voice, and I tense up.

"Hey, Edward."

He doesn't look up at her. His eyes are locked on the television, but Bella's eyes are on him.

_I'm _looking at her now, though. Her hair is wavy, one side tucked behind her ear. She's wearing makeup, and a long-sleeved black dress. I try to pull my eyes away from her face, but I can't. She looks young, of course, but not. I don't really remember her hair being this dark. It makes her skin look paler than usual, but she's still beautiful. The thought enters my mind before I can stop it.

I wonder how I was able to keep my eyes off her back then.

That thought enters my mind without permission as well. I need to stop. I need... to stare at the Pulp Fiction poster I have tacked to the wall. I was such a badass.

Bella shifts from foot to foot, looking worried and unsure. Her frown only deepens when she receives no response from the sullen teenager sitting on his bed.

I think I know which memory this is, and now I really don't want to do this anymore. I already feel like I've been beaten into the ground—adding this to everything will only make things worse.

A second passes and she steps over the threshold. After she entered my room, I remember all I could think was _Bella's in my room_. She hadn't stepped foot in there since the days when we played Donkey Kong on the Super NES.

"I just wanted to let you know that our parents are extremely drunk and it's highly entertaining," she says in an overly happy tone. I can see she's not happy, though. She's trying and he won't even look at her.

"Awesome."

She tries again. "Remember that one year—"

He clears his throat loudly, sufficiently cutting her off. I frown at this. He's being a prick.

The small smile that graced her face falters, but his coldness doesn't completely deter her. She walks over to his bookshelf, inspecting the items cluttering the shelves. Her fingers lightly brush against the spine of a book, and she jumps at the sound of his voice.

"Was there something else you needed?"

Her face falls, but her shock quickly turns into anger.

My jaw tightens because I know exactly what's coming. I remember this fight. I remember everything that happens next.

"Why do you hate me?" Bella blurts out.

This is when he finally decides to acknowledge her presence. His head slowly turns and he glares in her direction.

"What?"

She's trying so hard to hold eye contact, but breaks it when she finally speaks. "You haven't talked to me in years, Edward. Not really."

"We're talking now," he points out, smile just as sarcastic as his voice.

"But not... I don't want it to be like _this_, with me barging into your room and forcing you to talk to me. That's not how friends treat each other."

He laughs bitterly. I know this is just a front, an act to keep her away, and I know he's terrified she'll see straight through it. "We aren't friends, Bella. Do you not fucking get that? We played together when we were kids, but we're not kids anymore."

"We practically grew up together," she stresses. "My father and I have spent the last ten Christmases with your family. How can you sit here and tell me that we're not friends?"

"Your father and my parents are friends; _we're_not. The only reason why you two even spend Christmas here is because Esme felt sorry for you guys when your mom left."

My own jaw locks as the words come out of his mouth. I know it's a lie. _He_knows it's a lie. But Bella believes it. I remember seeing it on her face then and I can see it now.

The only sound in the room is the quiet murmur of voices from the television. Her eyes well up with tears. She's trying so hard not to cry and she succeeds. I don't remember her crying.

My gaze flicks between their faces. He looks away first. She stares at the floor before making one last attempt to reach out.

"I know you're hurting. I'm still hurting, too," she says, her voice wavering. "But Jesus, Edward. I wanted to be there for you and you wouldn't let me. You still won't let me."

His eyes flash. "_You're_ hurting? Jasper wasn't _your_ brother," he barks. "It wasn't _your_ fault—"

"It wasn't your fault either," she practically yells. "You were a kid, Edward. A kid! You didn't know he was going to fall through the ice. You've got to let it go."

"I let it go. I did. Now _you_ need to let _this _go," he says through clenched teeth. "I don't want to be your friend and I don't need your help. The only thing I need is for you to leave me alone."

Her forehead creases, but she doesn't respond. She just stares, trying to figure him out. She's looking too hard and for a second, I worry she will.

"Can you at least fucking do that?" he asks, voice rising in tone. "Just leave me alone."

I was a fucking asshole. I _am _a fucking asshole. I can feel Alice's eyes on me, but I try to ignore her, keeping my focus on the way Bella's mouth is turned downward.

And then she storms out of the room, and he stays in place, not bothering to chase after her.

But _I_do.

I bolt out of the room, and I'm not entirely sure why. I know this is just a memory and I can't change any of this. I don't know if I would _want _to change any of this, even if I could. Curiosity is getting the better of me, though, and I follow Bella down the hall.

My mother appears in front of her, catching her before she retreats down the stairs.

"Bella? What's wrong?" she asks, blocking her path. "I heard shouting." She glances over Bella's shoulder, maybe to check if her punk of a teenage son has followed after the girl he's upset. Her eyes look right through me, leaving me unsettled.

"Nothing," Bella lies, forcing a smile. "It's fine, Esme. I promise."

I want to punch myself in the face. She's covering for me. I treated her like shit and she fucking covered for me.

Esme studies her face and knows something isn't right, but she doesn't push for information. The longer she stares, though, the harder it is for Bella to keep her lips pressed into a fake smile.

"Bella," Esme murmurs. The way she says her name with such tenderness is enough to crumble Bella's resolve.

"I just need to... I just need," she says in short, gasping breaths.

"Come in here," my mother instructs, pulling her into the guest bathroom.

The door shuts behind them, and I'm left standing in the hallway with Alice.

"Can I go in there?" I ask, pulling on the back of my neck.

Alice gives me a small nod of approval, and just as I go to grab the knob, she places a hand on my arm. We're suddenly standing in the bathroom with them. It's still shocking to me that she can do that.

I see Bella and my mother sitting on the edge of the tub. Bella's head is in her hands and my mother's arm is protectively draped over her shoulder. My stomach is in knots as I watch my mother try to comfort Bella over something _I_ did; something _I_ caused.

My mother waits for Bella to catch her breath and explain what happened.

"I try so hard to be his friend, but he won't let me. I don't know what I did, and I don't know what to do. He just... he hates me!" Bella cries.

"That's not true and you know it," Esme chides. "I promise whatever Edward is struggling with, it doesn't have to do with you."

Bella sniffles. "But you don't know what he said to me."

My mother swipes under her eye, and gives her a gentle smile. "It'll be okay."

I look away. My eyes pull shut, but I still hear her.

"Don't give up on him yet." My mother's whisper is loud to my ears. "Just give him time."

_Time_? Time did nothing for me. If anything it made things worse.

"I want to go home," I tell Alice, keeping my eyes closed. She doesn't protest this time. Maybe she knows I've seen enough now.

When I finally open my eyes, we're standing in my apartment.

I've got to be losing my mind.

"Well, that was fun," I say dryly, sitting on the couch.

"Are you okay?" Alice asks, smiling tentatively.

I blow out a breath. "I'm good."

She doesn't exactly look convinced, but manages to continue smiling. "You mean visiting your past didn't completely transform you into a better person?"

"Uh..." My responding laugh is bitter. "No, not really."

"I figured. That's not how it works anyway," she says, uncharacteristically gentle. "Which is why you'll have another visitor stop by soon."

I look up and frown. "No. I'm done with this."

"I'm sorry," she says, and she actually looks like she means it. "It's out of my hands now. But it'll get better from here, I promise."

Dropping my head in my hands, I release a groan. "Fine. Who's going to visit next, and when? I have an important meeting coming up, so if we could schedule it around that—"

"It's not up to me, so I can't really say."

"Of course not," I mumble.

"But I can tell you that the next visitor will show you Present Day."

"Great. Can't wait."

Alice chews her lip, and then she's crouching in front of me. Grasping my hands, she squeezes gently.

"I'm sorry this was difficult, but I told you it would be. We chose those memories for a reason, and I know it wasn't easy to see them again, but it was necessary. I hope you'll see why soon." She smiles softly. "You can't live in the past while pretending it doesn't exist. You're missing your life, and you don't even notice. It's time to look up, remember?"

I nod dumbly. She doesn't seem to expect anything else, which is good because I have nothing else to give. Without another word, she presses a small kiss to my cheek, and then she's gone.

I don't know how long I sit there, just staring, trying not to think. I fall asleep at some point; next thing I know, sunshine is streaming in through my windows, forcing me to open my eyes.

The bright light chases away the remnants of sleep, and I slowly come back to reality. I blink up at the ceiling, and breathe a sigh of relief. It was all a dream. Only a dream. A seriously fucked-up dream, but a dream nonetheless.

I sit up against the couch, mouth dry and head aching. I see the bottle of liquor on the table, realizing that's why I feel so shitty. It's probably why my dream seemed so vivid, too.

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I make a decision.

I'm never drinking again.

* * *

**Thank you so very much for reading!**

**Huge thanks to Erica and Kim for looking over this.**


	6. The Delusion

**Chapter Six: The Delusion**

"Mr. Cullen?"

I jump at the sound of Charlotte's voice, lifting my head from my desk. I fight the urge to rub my eyes, clearing my throat instead. I try to play off the fact that I've just fallen asleep. By the look on her face, I don't think she's fooled.

"Yes?"

"Are you finished looking over those statements? Mr. Cheney was asking for them."

I glance down at the papers scattered on my desk. No, I'm not done looking over them. I read the same line about ten times before I apparently fell asleep.

"Give me another hour, please."

Her eyes widen for a moment before she nods. "Very well," she says quietly, shutting the door.

Once she leaves, I regret not asking for another cup of coffee. I don't understand why I'm so tired. Despite the fact that I had insane dreams, I got plenty of sleep. Loads of sleep. I passed out early from drinking. I didn't spend the night traveling into my past with a ghost. Obviously not. Nope.

I attempt to look over the statements again, but find myself unable to focus. Standing from my chair, I walk over to the door and open it, looking down the hall before I make my way to the break room. I glance around as I walk, feeling slightly on edge for some reason.

The break room is empty, and I go to pour myself a cup of coffee. I hear the door open behind me, and I immediately stiffen.

"Mr. Cullen?" Charlotte's voice fills the room and I relax. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't know you wanted coffee. I—"

I turn around, shaking my head. "I forgot to mention it before you left my office. It's fine."

She looks confused, yet again; she isn't usually this puzzled. We stand there in an awkward silence before I can't take it anymore and leave the room.

I keep my head down as I head back to my office. I don't know why I'm suddenly being so cautious, but I _do _know that it has nothing to do with trying to avoid Bella. That would be ridiculous. I just had weird dreams about her last night. Doesn't mean anything.

Seeing her yesterday just took me by surprise, that's all. Brought up all those memories, which was why I had those drunken dreams.

Those really vivid dreams. That I can still remember in a way I don't usually remember dreams.

I take a big gulp of my coffee.

The day drags on, and when it reaches half past five, I decide to call it a day. I've been completely useless, and there's no point in me staying. I gather a few things and pack up my laptop, with the intention of doing a little work at home.

I'm relieved when I find the office empty, and walk with more ease as I head toward the elevator.

I'm staring at my reflection in the doors when the elevator slows to a stop. I barely have time to comprehend that this is the marketing floor, before I'm staring at Bella.

She's mid-laugh, talking to the man beside her. As soon as she meets my gaze, I look away. My body tenses, but I move to the side, allowing the group of people to step in. A few of them nod in my direction, and I robotically do the same.

They shuffle around the small space, and Bella ends up next to me. Despite myself, I slightly turn my head and catch her staring at me. My neck burns. I tighten my grip on my laptop case.

The mundane chatter of the others keeps her occupied and prevents things from getting too awkward. I don't want to pay attention to what they're saying, but no matter how hard I try, I can't tune her out.

"Did you decide whether or not you're going to the charity ball?" the man she was laughing with asks.

I stare ahead, watching the floors tick down.

"Yeah, I'm going," she says casually.

"Are you bringing anyone? I think I might be going alone this time," a woman says. "The open bar did not agree with my date last year."

Laughter sounds around the elevator, except from me.

"I think I'll be going alone," Bella tells her. "I don't know that many people here yet." From my peripheral, I catch her head turning my way for a second.

My chest pounds and I resist the urge to loosen my tie. I need to get out of this elevator.

"Oh, right," the woman says. "Well, you'll meet more people soon. I mean, you've only been living here for a week."

I don't want this information to interest me, but it does. I know enough from what Mom's told me that she's been living in New York for a while. I wonder why she decided to move back to Chicago.

Before another word can be spoken, we reach the lobby and everyone begins filing out.

I stay where I am, since I'm heading to the garage a floor down. Bella's hair swings as she steps forward. I'm surprised when she suddenly looks over her shoulder. Our eyes meet, and she tentatively smiles. After how I treated her yesterday, I don't understand why she'd bother, but the fact that she does makes me feel a weird mixture of relief and shame. I don't deserve a smile from her, but I want one anyway.

My answering smile is small, but by the way she blinks in quick succession, I can tell it's more than she was expecting. Her lips spread wider. She steps off the elevator, disappearing from sight.

As soon as the doors close, I loosen my tie. How can she smile at me like that? I've been a dick to her for almost twenty years. I deserve for her to completely ignore me, or call me an asshole and walk off in a spectacularly dramatic way.

But no. I get smiles, and effort, and her being a good person through-and-through, which really just makes me feel worse about myself.

Doesn't she remember what a jerk I've been? How I treated her? I do. I remember in vivid detail, thanks to that incredibly weird, scarily accurate dream, which was totally just a dream, and nothing else. She can't possibly have forgiven me for everything I did to her.

On my drive home, I spend more time than I should analyzing her smile. Maybe she wasn't just being a nice person. Maybe this whole move to Chicago is an elaborate ruse, and she's just trying to befriend me so she'll get close enough to exact her revenge.

Then I remind myself that my life is not a soap opera, and I try to forget about the whole thing.

I come home, make dinner, and watch the news. I don't take any of it in, though; my brain won't turn away from Bella. I suddenly have so many questions about her. What has she been doing these last few years? Why did she move back to Chicago? Why would she want to work at Cullen & Platt? Where does she live now? Has she read any good books lately? Is grilled cheese still her favorite food?

I groan at myself. What am I doing? I need to stop thinking about her. It's just that stupid dream's fault.

_That scarily accurate, super-realistic dream that I vividly remember_.

I scrub a hand over my face. Just because I remember every detail, it doesn't mean anything. Of course it was just a dream.

I find myself staring off into space when something creaks behind me. I jump, and spin around with my heart beating a mile a minute. Wide-eyed, I stare at empty air. Nothing. There's nothing there.

Still, the back of my neck prickles. I feel watched. Warily, I look around my apartment. No, nothing there either.

"Stop being an idiot," I admonish myself. "It was just a dream."

I settle back into the couch, awkwardly tense. I turn the volume on the television up, hoping that it will drown out any other creaking noises, but all it does is make me more nervous. What if someone comes, and I can't hear them?

"What? No one's coming," I say. "Idiot."

I turn the volume back down anyway. Then I turn the television off altogether. I rise from the couch and pace the living room. I don't even look at the liquor cabinet this time.

God, what if someone does come? What if it wasn't a dream? It didn't actually feel like a dream, and sure, seeing Bella yesterday was a pretty big shock, but was it big enough to influence my dreams like that? It seems unlikely.

I chew on the side of my thumb. But not _that _unlikely, right? I mean, what's harder to believe: that it was all just a messed up dream, or that it actually happened?

I still haven't really decided by the time I go to bed. I haven't slept with a light on since I was five, but as I lie there with empty space on either side of me and the covers halfway up my chest, the darkness seems oppressive. That prickling feeling at the back of my neck returns, and I clasp my hands over my stomach to stop from reaching for the lightswitch.

I toss and turn all night, waking up almost as soon as I manage to fall asleep. At one point, I'm sure I see someone standing at the foot of my bed, and after running into the bathroom to splash water on my face, I leave the light on.

When it's just after three, I decide that if I make it all the way to morning without anyone teleporting into my bedroom, it was only a dream, and I can forget about the whole thing. If someone _does _teleport into my bedroom... Well, I'll deal with that when it happens.

Thankfully, I don't have to deal with it. I sleep until my alarm goes off, and I have honestly never been happier to wake up.

It was a dream. Just a stupid dream, that didn't mean anything and doesn't affect my life whatsoever.

I'm practically giddy as I go through my morning routines. I watch the news and pay attention the whole time. I pick my favorite shirt to wear under my favorite suit. I catch myself whistling as I lock up the door and head out.

It was just a dream.

I feel like singing. I don't, but I feel like I could.

When I arrive at the office, I find myself rather cheerful. I'm not on edge like I was yesterday. I even say hi to a few people who didn't say hi to me first. Sure, I received some odd looks here and there, but it doesn't affect me. Not even the Christmas decorations put a damper on my mood.

As the day goes on, I go about my work, actually able to focus. But then I make the mistake of glancing at the clock, realizing it's nearing half past five. My mind immediately goes to Bella.

My fingers drum against the desk as I wonder if I should leave early again today. Not because I'm hoping to run into Bella again. Obviously not. That would be ridiculous.

Two minutes pass, and then three, and I'm packing up my things and calling it a day.

When the elevator doors open, I find myself face-to-face with my father.

He looks as surprised as I feel. I step in and stand next to him.

"I was just coming to see you," he says, clapping me on the back. "Your mother wanted me to invite you over for dinner tonight."

"Ah."

He goes on, telling me what she's made for dinner, but I can't listen to him. The elevator descends, and I grow anxious as we near Bella's floor. I wonder if she'll be with that group of people again. I wonder if she'll stand near me. I wonder if she'll acknowledge me and smile and look back again, though I deserve nothing.

The elevator doesn't make a stop until we're five floors below hers. I can't help but feel disappointed. It's stupid. I can't believe I left work early to catch her on her way out. _I'm _stupid. And what was I expecting, anyway?

"So, is that a yes?" my father asks, pulling me out of my head.

I feel uncomfortable. The invitations are usually over the phone or via email, making it easier for me to decline the offers. But now that I'm being invited in person, I find it hard to say no. He looks so expectant as he waits for my answer, so I rub the back of my neck and tell him yes.

With traffic, it takes a little longer than normal to get to my parents' house. When I finally arrive and park in the driveway, I see my dad's car already parked. I stare at the house for a minute. I haven't been here in a while, but it doesn't feel that way. Especially not after my dream last night.

I head toward the door and have that awkward moment where I don't know whether to knock or just walk in. The door opens before I have a chance to decide.

"Edward!" My mother pulls me into a hug.

"Hey, Mom," I mumble, lightly wrapping my arms around her.

"I didn't think you'd be able to make it tonight, but I'm so glad you're here," she tells me, ushering me inside.

I say nothing, but force a smile.

Dinner isn't as uncomfortable as I imagined it'd be, but I still don't say much. I listen to my mother and father talk about things that I don't care about. I have nothing to offer to the conversation. I find myself unable to focus, until I hear my father mention something about work. It's the only thing I feel comfortable talking with them about.

When we're done eating and my mother asks me to stay for dessert, I tell her I should head back home. I go to offer her an excuse as to why, but stop myself. Because I have no real reason to go home, other than I want to be there. I have no one waiting for me, nothing to look forward to. Realizing this almost makes me want to accept her offer, but when she just kisses my cheek and tells me to drive safe, I decide against it. She doesn't even try to convince me to stay.

It's a little after eight-thirty when I'm finally back home. It's as I'm walking down the hallway, heading toward the kitchen, that I hear muffled voices coming from the living room. I frown as I turn the corner, wondering if I've left the television on.

When I enter the room, I do see that the television is on. But I also see a man sitting on my couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.

I can't help the scream that I produce.

"Jeez, calm down, dude," he mutters, covering his ears. "Where've you been? I've been waiting for you for almost two hours," he says in exasperation.

My voice is slightly hysterical as I ask, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Emmett," he tells me, taking a sip of beer. _My _beer. He's drinking my beer. And sitting on my couch.

"What are you doing in my apartment?"

He smiles widely. "You've been expecting me, haven't you?"

I shake my head, racking my brain. I'm pretty sure I don't know anyone named Emmett.

"Surely Alice told you I'd be stopping by," he adds, and _fuck_.

_Alice._

"Hey, why don't you have the sports package?" he asks, flipping through the stations. "It's only like, what, ten extra bucks a month?"_  
_  
_Freaking Alice_.

"Dammit," I mutter, dropping my head in defeat.

* * *

**Hello, friends. Thanks for still reading our story, even though it's 335 days until Christmas. You're lovely people.  
**

**Huge thanks to Kim and Erica for reading this over. They're lovely people, too.  
**


End file.
